Breaking the Ice
by bosanskadjevojka
Summary: Carrying on from the scene post-wolf attack where Belle is tending to Beast's wounds. The two are beginning to understand one another a little, but maybe one of them isn't completely free of danger yet... Expect short, numerous chapters, because I'm lazy like like that.
1. Chapter 1

After Belle had thanked the Beast for saving her life, a silence fell over the room as deep as the snow settled in the forest outside. She tended to his wounds in the firelight and reflected, with bitter humour, how idyllic this scene would appear – the pops and crackles of the fire, the smell of burning turf – to a visitor who didn't know the full story.

Eventually she got up. The fire wouldn't warm her any more than this – though her skin was hot and red, she still felt the cold deep within her. Her clothes were still damp from when she and Phillipe had fallen, briefly, through a sheet of ice into a shallow riverbank.

"May I be excused?" she asked.

The Beast looked at her. His face was half-covered in the darkness, but she still thought she could see an expression in those eyes – something soft, thoughtful.

"This... this is your home now," he said. He spoke quickly, as if he were eager to have these words yanked out of him. "You don't need permission to be excused."

"Thank you," she said.

"You must be hungry. I'll have my servants arrange a breakfast for you. Is there a time you'd like to be risen?"

She'd not given this much thought. "Normally I wake early – about six. But that was when I had chores to do. When I was at home."

The Beast turned towards the fire. He scratched at the back of his head. He understood the implication.

"But thank you for the breakfast," Belle added.

"A pleasure," he said. He was still looking at the fire, and he didn't seem to be taking any pleasure from this.

Belle was halfway through the door when a thought occurred – something she felt needed to be said. "Belle. My name is Belle."

He was still looking at the fire – in a way that made sense. She'd known dogs that could stare, utterly enchanted, at a fireplace for hour.

"That's a beautiful name," he said.

Belle was unsure whether or not to add this, but her curiosity overcame her sense of caution: "And you, Monsieur? Do you have a name?"

Now he turned to face her. She'd half-expected another tantrum, at least another show of growls and teeth, and indeed he seemed to be grappling with something – that soft look in his expression was gone now, replaced by something more animalistic – but he kept his temper controlled. "That's not important now," is what he said. Belle couldn't help feel there was something of the sulky child in his tone.


	2. Chapter 2

The walk back to her room took some time: she found herself lost, confused even, inside the great expanse of the castle, and she was feeling tired now. She was missing the warmth of the fire, the idyllic smells and crackles that were like her own fireplace at home. She hoped there would be something for her to change into that wasn't so damp.

After the wolf attack, she'd wanted to run. Get on Phillipe and ride home, back to Poppa, back to the small town were repetition at least guaranteed safety, even back to Gaston. She'd had her adventure; she had her story to tell...

But no! Even before those thoughts were fully-formed, another part of her – the odd part, the part of herself she secretly liked, the part that got her into trouble and made her push handsome goons through doors – felt that was a terrible idea; almost a betrayal. Because whatever the situation was, he'd saved her life, her mortal soul: and the look of pain and fear on his face as he collapsed made it certain that he had a life and soul worth saving too. When she ran to him and tried to pull him back to his feet, she felt the warmth in his fur, the gentle pulse at his wrists. When she took hold of him he grasped back, semi-consciously, like a baby feeling for its mother.

"Get up!" she'd cried, in a voice she'd never heard herself use before. "Now! Get up! You can't stay here!"

He groaned like a child that didn't want another schoolday, and his grasp on her tightened.

"Get up this instant!" she said, and she slapped him. She'd slapped a Beast. Looking back now she could barely believe that, but in the moment she'd realised what she had to do. It had been freezing. There'd been no way on Earth she could have moved him. She'd done what she had to.

Eventually, she got him conscious, at least conscious enough to stumble onto Phillipe. The old boy had whinnied under all that weight, and his distress had made Belle's heart feel heavy, but when the horse steadied himself and rose under that giant (almost-) dead weight, her heart had flown off into the sky. _You'll have oats and apples and sugarcubes,_ she thought. _Whatever this Beast wants of me, he'll reward my horse. I'll make sure of that._


	3. Chapter 3

_Well you should learn to control your temper!_

This was the first short-lived idea that came to him when she said that: he was going to stay calm. He was going to take her, very calmly, by one of her puny little wrists, and take her back up to the tower. There he'd explain to her, with an even, patient smile, that she was going back into a cell. But not the spacious, luxurious that her father had sampled: no, he had somewhere much better suited to her, somewhere as small and dark as a coffin, somewhere so dank and grim the rats only ever used it as a toilet. He might even whistle a happy tune as he chained her to the wall and bade her farewell. Because he'd be in a fantastic mood as he shut the heavy door and listened to her wailing – because he'd very much enjoy seeing how _her_ saintly disposition would stand up to being shut away from the world and treated like an animal. Perhaps then she might understand why he had something of a temper.

But another thought came straight away, clinging to the tails of the first: _maybe this is what she's talking about._

And when she thanked him, he felt vaguely ashamed of those malicious thoughts. She took his arm and dabbed at it with genuine care; he felt the warmth of her touch, the softness of her fingers. Her delicate wrist suddenly looked so precious, so fragile. She was even prettier with her hair damp and splayed over her shoulders, with her big hazel eyes dipped in concentration. How could her life have been in danger? Surely even the wolves could see her beauty!

When she left for bed, he stayed in his chair staring at the fire. The room was silent... lifeless... colourless. Amazing how dramatically a simple blue dress could light up a whole castle, even when that dress was darkened by the water it had soaked in.

He rang for his servants.

When Mrs Potts, Cogsworth and Luminere were gathered before him, he had a simple question: "What do you think about Belle?"

Cogsworth stepped forward to speak first, as was his habit. He stammered his way into a response: "Well... well, that's an interesting question... perhaps... what do you think of her, Sir?"

_He's nervous,_ thought the Beast. _Do I have that effect on my staff?_

"It doesn't matter what I think of her," he said. "I'm asking your opinion. Because... I respect your judgement."

There was a moment's pause before anybody spoke, like his servants were trying to process this information. Eventually Luminere, trusty old Luminere, spoke up.

"She is, uhh, certainly a lively one, Sir," he said. "She knows her own mind."

"That's true," said the Beast.

"And surely you must have noticed her... physical attributes, Sir," Luminere said with a leery wink. The Beast was observant enough to know how bawdy Luminere could be, even though he was never like that around his master. The Beast was pleased that his candlestick was talking to him like this.

"She's a lovely girl," Mrs Potts said. Her eyes lit up – it was hard to believe that pottery could shine that way. "She certainly seems very brave to me. Caring, intelligent-"

"Irresponsible," Cogsworth cut in. He gestured at the bandage on the Beast's arm. "Look what she made you do."

"I may have played some part in that," the Beast said. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Now his servants glanced around nervously. He could tell they sensed danger here, that they didn't want to get drawn on this topic. Two revelations occurred to him. Firstly, he dearly loved these servants – even Cogsworth – even if he couldn't tell them so. Secondly, even as much as he loved them, he knew he couldn't trust them to be entirely straight with him – to tell him things he didn't want to hear. Would any of these have told him to control his temper?

"Take her breakfast tomorrow morning. The best we've got, anything she likes." The Beast paused for reflection. He had something to add. "Please."

Once they were gone, he once again felt the weight of that silence. The room's emptiness hung thick on his giant shoulders.

There was another reason – equally shameful – why locking her away seemed like a good idea. Hope was dangerous.


End file.
